


doom of the living

by rhymeswithpi



Series: limit break [28]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Iggy is a mess, Introspection, Suicidal Thoughts, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23300023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithpi/pseuds/rhymeswithpi
Summary: it takes a shamefully long time to figure it out, really, why he keeps startling hunters he comes across in the darkness. but really, the tiny flashlights don’t do a damn thing to keep the daemons at bay, and it’s not like he needs one to see these days.maybeit’s worth keeping one hooked onto his clothes, though, just so the people he meets in the wilderness don’t immediately try to kill him.
Series: limit break [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/684894
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	doom of the living

**Author's Note:**

> i was given a beautiful, fluffy prompt and, true to form, immediately took a hard turn right into the angst dungeon  
> i'm so sorry

it takes a shamefully long time to figure it out, really, why he keeps startling hunters he comes across in the darkness. but really, the tiny flashlights don’t do a damn thing to keep the daemons at bay, and it’s not like he needs one to see these days. _maybe_ it’s worth keeping one hooked onto his clothes, though, just so the people he meets in the wilderness don’t immediately try to kill him.

not that just dying would be a bad thing, either, but that’s beside the point.

he’s made something of a point of hunting alone, with the rare exception for taking talcott along to explore ruins and try to find _answers_ , and even then solely because he lacks the ability to read anything they find himself. it’s hardly important to keep a light on his person, despite the number of times prompto and gladio have insisted he carry one _just for emergencies_ , like he’s going to be bleeding out in a ditch somewhere and the light will be the thing that saves him, not sheer stupid luck.

he begrudgingly wears one the few times he goes out with his old friends, mostly for their own peace of mind and so they’ll stop _nagging_ him about it. he fights better in the darkness, but he also fights better without them _hovering_ incessantly. he’s learned to pick his battles.

all that aside, he can’t deny that maybe if he’d remembered to wear the stupid light, there wouldn’t be a knife pinning his arm - sleeve, really, but it bit into his arm pretty well - to this tree. there’s a number of factors at play in how he got stuck here, including his own exhaustion and clumsy relief at finding other humans and the blessedly poor aim of whoever _threw_ the knife. or maybe it was incredibly good aim. regardless, there’s blood dripping down his arm, and whatever strength he had left after his hunt is quickly sapping away. his ribs are starting to ache, breath catching painfully, and he’s pretty sure there’s a gash in his thigh, based on the burning, so different from the usual exhausted muscles.

he can hear footsteps in the underbrush, mentally corrects his original estimate from three to five people, five living, breathing humans who hopefully won’t rob him and leave him to die here, who hopefully have at least enough respect for what he does to unpin him from the tree and let him die in a ditch like he deserves. they’re close enough that he can hear them talking to each other, catches bits of profanity, but he’s _tired_ , tired in a way he’s been ever since the day he left Altissia, and none of their words make enough sense to stick in his mind. 

if they have any sense, they’ll leave him here, run before the scent of blood attracts something bigger and nastier than they are. but no, there’s hands holding him up, voices still talking to him even if they aren’t making sense. his consciousness fades as he’s hoisted over someone’s shoulder.

  
  


waking up again sucks, and _maybe_ he should take some time to consider why he’s so disappointed that he’s not dead. it seems like a great thought spiral to have some other time, when there’s _not_ someone sitting in a chair nearby, foot tapping intermittently against the floor.

his arm throbs with every heartbeat, offset by the sharp pain in his thigh. he doesn’t even have the luxury of blaming the headache on the light, because even if he bothered to open his eyes it’d still be fucking dark, just like every other hellish day since altissia. it’s probably blood loss, or exhaustion, or dehydration. or all three. so he stubbornly keeps his eyes shut, pretends whoever’s tapping their foot _isn’t_ driving daggers into his temples with every creak of the chair and soft click of their heel on the floor. it might be less grating if he could figure out some sort of _pattern_ to it all, if he could pin down some sort of tell that might help him figure out who’s sitting there, watching him pretend to be asleep on this lumpy camp cot.

the odds point to it being someone he doesn’t know, really. and he probably owes it to whoever it is to stop being so overdramatic.

“i don’t have time for this, iggy.”

ah. it’s gladio, then. not that he’s entirely sure what gladio’s doing here, or where here even _is_. he’s not even entirely sure where he was before this, has only the vaguest memories of the hunt he was on. it’s all blurred together over the years, anyway, a mess of deaths and injuries and not caring if he makes it back alive after it all.

“don’t bullshit me, iggy. i’ve known you since we were kids. i know you’re awake.”

there’s no point in pretending, then. not that there really was in the first place. he sighs heavily and opens his eyes, swallows back the disappointment at the ever-present darkness. takes a long moment in silence to take proper stock of his injuries, spares a moment of regret for the days when curatives were more readily available and he wouldn’t have to wait days or weeks to be back on his feet from this. gladio hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything further. he pushes himself upright, noting with a grimace that he _definitely_ broke a rib or two. it’s followed by the realization that he’s not wearing a shirt, or even _pants_ , and whatever blanket they threw over him is threadbare, at best. but it’s probably the only option they had at this outpost. it’s far too quiet to be lestallum, and he was too far away for it to be hammerhead. so where the hell _is_ he?

his thoughts are interrupted by gladio unceremoniously throwing a shirt at him. he struggles to get it on, the movement pulling at what he’s now aware are stitches in his right bicep, breath hissing out when he angers his ribs again. and there’s nothing he can do about his injuries but wait for them to heal, and with waiting will come more _thinking_. the one thing he tries to avoid doing these days. but the shirt is on, at least, not that he particularly cares. it’s not like he’s the one who has to look at his own injuries.

“why are you _here_ , gladio?” he asks. “and where _is_ here?”

“you told a _bunch of kids_ to just let you die, iggy. of course they called me. and of course i had to come.”

he has no memory of this, which shouldn’t be surprising. there have been large gaps in his memory for _years_ , things he knows he’s done but has no recollection of actually doing. and in his defense, he wasn’t exactly in good shape when he stumbled into that group of hunters.

“don’t think you’re getting out of talking about this,” gladio says. “fuck, iggy, you made prom cry.”

he has nothing to say to that, just balls up the flimsy blanket in his lap and wishes he had a pair of pants. at least then he could get off this cot and pretend he’s _fine_ , and hope people will allow him the dignity of pretending they don’t know otherwise. might be slightly warmer, too.

“you’re in the cauthess outpost, by the way. storage room in the back of the garage. there’s a supply run heading to lestallum soon, and i’m taking you back with me whether you like it or not.”

it dawns on him that gladio is _angry_ , and probably has every right to be. it’s not like anything he’s done these last few years has been logical. or healthy. or even _remotely_ sane. but any time he’s stopped long enough to consider just what he’s doing, it gets harder to pick himself up and get moving again. so he’s just kept right on doing the same dumb shit, walking into fights he hopes he can’t win. and really, he’s just too tired to be angry at himself.

“it’s been seven years, iggy. how much longer are you gonna make us watch you do this to yourself? and how pissed is noct gonna be when he finally comes back and you got yourself killed by some pointless daemon?”

he doesn’t have an answer for that, not that gladio sticks around to _hear_ one, door clicking shut and footsteps fading into the distance. long minutes pass in silence as he smooths the worn out blanket over his lap, and he thinks if he were a braver man, he might just walk out into the rest of the encampment without pants on. maybe just walk off into the wilderness, never to be seen again.

but he’s a coward, when it comes down to it. while the years have made gladio hard and angry, and prompto impossibly kind, they’ve made him numb and afraid.

afraid that maybe, there is no happy ending waiting, that the light won’t ever return. that the crystal will never release noct, and they’re all doomed to die in the darkness. he’s known for a long time just how unlikely it is noct will survive everything, knows in the core of his being that the price for humanity’s survival will be noct’s life.

and he would gladly doom humanity if it meant he could save noct.

but that’s not what he’s allowed to do, it’s not the _logical_ thing to do. somewhere, there’s a version of himself that valued logic over all else, before time and pain numbed him, before loss and want and suffering consumed everything. some day he might get to take a moment to mourn the person he used to be.

there’s time for this spiral later, he hopes. there’s more important things to do now, like find something resembling pants, or refashion this blanket into a stylish toga so he can leave this gods-forsaken garage with what little dignity he has left intact. his phone is probably around here somewhere, as well, and he spares a moment of dread for how many messages he’ll have to listen to from prompto.

all he can do for now is take it one day, one hour, one _minute_ at a time.

and that’s just going to have to be enough.

  
  
  



End file.
